


Daisies and Amaryllis

by from2to7



Category: No Fandom
Genre: F/M, Hanahaki Disease, How Do I Tag, uhhhhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-07-20 10:03:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16134983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/from2to7/pseuds/from2to7
Summary: Sometimes, you fall in love without realizing.Margaret didn't know what she had until she lost it.





	Daisies and Amaryllis

**Author's Note:**

> writing instead of doing homework? wow good job me

Margaret listened to Shelly’s ramblings. Well, half listened. She took notes on what Shelly said to analyze again later on. Her mind was elsewhere.

“... And I just don’t know if I should go for the surgery or confess to Andrew,” Shelly finally finished.

Margaret flipped through her notes on Shelly and simply said, “Surgery. From what I gathered, he likely doesn’t care for you, and I hate seeing my patients suffer so much.”

Shelly nodded. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll go through with the surgery. It’s about time that I did, anyway.” She paused to lightly cough into a tissue, and Margaret caught the glimpse of a couple dahlias splattered with drops of blood.

“Come back tomorrow.” Margaret helped Shelly to her feet. She nodded okay, and left.

Hanahaki Disease, sometimes called Death’s Bouquet, was the result of unrequited love. True love was hard enough to find as it was, and unrequited love acted as a weight on one’s heart. That weight may take a physical form if strong enough, and lead to the sprouting of flowers from within the body. The type and intensity of love determined the flower that bloomed from within. The only cures were to have surgery, move on, or confess one’s love.

Margaret knew best, it seemed. She was the florist right around the corner, offering simple blossoms to young boys with a crush or splendid bouquets to middle-aged men in a fight with their wives. Other times, she would welcome people into the back room and listen as they spilled their love troubles to her. Only a select few knew of her surgical procedures. She could remove Hanahaki Disease herself, swiftly and painlessly, with her shears.

Margaret loved everyone she met, and was loved as much in return. But, she never understood romantic love. She turned down everyone who tried to enter her heart. She never felt she had one capable of love, after her mother, anyway.

Shelly came in the next evening, right after the last customer left the shop. Margaret led Shelly to her apartment upstairs, pulling along her bag of supplies.

Margaret gestured Shelly toward a chaise in the corner to lie down. Meanwhile, she poured some wine, hoping it would get Shelly to relax.

“I trust you,” Shelly said abruptly as soon as Margaret handed her the glass.

“I know you do. Relax, darling, everything will be fine.”

Shelly sipped her wine, and laid down on her plush chaise. Margaret pulled out her shears quickly, and snipped right between Shelly’s ribs. She snipped a bit further, reaching in and finding the small bulb where all the flowers stemmed from, right at the bottom of her heart.

Margaret never ceased to be amazed by how different everyone’s bulbs were. How love could differ so much from person to person, but how genuine it must always be to take root at the bottom of one’s heart. Flowers grew toward sunlight, so of course it made sense that the seeds would germinate inside the bulb but flow with the blood into the outreaches of the bronchioles, creep through them, and up one’s trachea to finally see the light of day.

She snipped away the bulb quickly and dunked it into a bowl of water so she could extract and plant the seeds inside it later. Margaret threaded a needle and immediately began stitching up her friend with a lovely row of tiny x’s, and finally wiped off the last of the blood. Shelly breathed easier when she spotted the x’s in a line, as if lacing her up, indicating she was good as new, if not even better.

“You’ll continue to cough up the blooms for a week at most. It’ll just be your body clearing itself of the flowers. Afterward, you’ll be fine. Your body knows itself well enough to recover after removing Hanahaki,” Margaret explained. Shelly reached toward her wallet to pay her, but Margaret stopped her.

“Thank you,” Shelly allowed all of her appreciation to fill those two words, and Margaret beamed with contentment.

“No problem,” was her simple reply. “Thank you,” she added, as she slipped a couple bills into her client’s pocket, “for being a supplier.”

\---

The seeds in the bowl of water had finally shedded the bulb’s skin, allowing Margaret to pick them out from the bloodied water. She cradled them in her hands as she brought them outside onto her balcony, and placed them on the sill. She scooped some soil and fertilizer into miniature terracotta pots, and deposited a seed in each. Better to grow them all apart while I can’t identify them as seeds, she told herself.

Lies, of course. Margaret saw enough flowers in her lifetime to be able to tell seeds apart, even what color the flowers would become. She continued calmly tilling the soil around the rest of her balcony garden, taking her sweet time.

How else did you expect her to keep her flower shop in stock?

She started tending the perennial section (priorities, man) until she heard a loud thump one rooftop over and the following “Shit, waTCH OUT!”

Unfortunately, Margaret did not “watch out”. Instead, she looked up at the commander with a blank face as he crashed down on top of her.

They lay there in silence, balking at each other in shock, pain, and a tangle of limbs.

“What the hell were you doing out there?!” Margaret screamed, tossing the figure off of her toward the daisies, a horrible mistake, on her part, again.

He dodged the pots as gracefully as someone who just barreled her on her balcony could. “Wow, what an introduction, how more polite can you get from that?” The offender winced as he rubbed at a sore spot on his knee. “That’s definitely going to bruise,” he muttered. “Get me some ice, will you?”

Margaret fumed. “How could you just barge in on my garden and expect me to comply to your every whim? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Chill, maybe get ice for yourself while you’re at it.” He lowered his eyelids and gave her what he must’ve thought was a sexy smirk. “The name’s Will, short for Wilson, but you can call me anytime.” She watched his eyes rake up and down.

Margaret blamed a mosquito for what happened next.

Will nursed the burning handprint on his face with his free hand. “Okay, maybe I deserve that, but can I please get some ice? Parkour is difficult in this part of town when all the apartment buildings are high as one can get with this garden of yours,” he looked around, “or verandas with a stupid amount of stuff on them.”

Margaret objected, “I don’t grow weed,” but slid open her sliding door and let him into her living room to sit on her sofa. “If you touch one thing, don’t worry about getting home, you’ll be perfect plant fertilizer.” She walked into her kitchen area.

Will gave her another smirk as he kicked up his feet onto the coffee table. “How about I fertilize yo--”

Margaret glared at him from over her kitchen bar. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence, or I will call the cops on you for sexual harassment.”

He gave her a dubious look. “Wouldn’t it make more sense for me to call them on you, Miss Flower Thief?”

Gawking, she sputtered, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You steal flowers from people’s throats, don’t you?”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

“I do not.” She punctuated her final objection by sitting next to him and shoving the pack to his face.

A startled “Mmph!” came from underneath, so she quickly moved it to his knee instead. “Hope this is fine,” Margaret said. “Cold gel packs stay cold longer than ice packs.”

He looked at her hand on his knee. “I never got your name,” he commented.

“I never gave it to you,” she snarked. “It’s Daisy.”

“Okay Miss Daisy, may I be the Flower Thief and steal you away?”

“Don’t ever try that again. My name is actually Margaret, which is simpler than Marguerite, which is French for Daisy.”

He chortled, “What an elaborate process. Who named you?”

“My mother.”

He paused. “Your mother must love French and flowers.”

“She did,” she sighed. They sat quietly in awkward silence for a bit longer.

Will suddenly stood up. “I best be on my way, now. Good night, Margaret.” He made a move for her hand and lightly kissed it.

She sniffed and yanked her hand away from his grasp. “Why couldn’t you be this chivalrous when you crashed onto my balcony?”

“Because I didn’t expect such a fair lady to spew such vulgar words the first time we met.” With that, he winked, jumped toward a building with a lower roof, and leaped away.

Margaret didn’t realize he stole her ice pack until later.

\---

A week had passed since their encounter. Margaret was restocking the freesia and hyacinth until the front door opened and jingled the bell.

“Hello, how might I help you?” she called mindlessly, from behind the bunches of flowers she was rearranging.

“Can I get some daisies for Miss Daisy?”

She recognized the voice and stilled. “Will?” Margaret set down the blossoms and looked at him. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m buying some flowers, thank you. How much will daisies be?” Will pulled out a wallet while juggling a large bundle in his other arm.

“Uh…” she scrambled to get behind the counter. “That’ll be twenty-five dollars even, thank you. Would you like to attach a note?”

“You sure know how to run a business, lady,” he laughed as he handed her his card. “A note would be a good idea.” She handed him a small piece of cardstock patterned with flower silhouettes on the edges, which he accepted and scribbled a series of… Margaret looked away and swiped his card. 

“Have a good day!” she said, to which she got a reply of, “See you later tonight!”

\---

She was on her balcony again. Flowers were high-maintenance, unlike herself. But when she heard the tell-tale gritty noise of stepping on gravel and the following, “Watch out!”, she gave in and sidestepped.

In the wrong direction.

The breath was knocked out of Margaret’s lungs as Will tumbled toward her, cornering her against her glass door with a flash of white. She never realized how tall he was. Same as before, he didn’t bother to look embarrassed but instead looked down at her suggestively and cooed, “Oh, how I wonder what it would be like for me to top you.”

Without even the slightest hint of a flush, Margaret didn’t falter in shoving him off of her. “Parkour again? Why do you keep doing it if you just keep falling on top of people?”

“It’s the only way for me to get you to fall for me,” he countered. “I got you some flowers.”

At the sight of the slightly deformed daisies she sold him earlier in the day, she gave a light laugh. He’d give more than just daisies if he could hear her charming amusement again. She looked at the note which must have been his phone number on it, but watched his face as she hastily ripped it up. He mocked taking offence.

“Why give me flowers? I run a literal flower shop.” She eyed him. “What prank are you pulling here?”

“Nothing, just showing you some support, is all. It took a while to figure you were the charming florist downstairs, who knew?” He tried to laugh off the blatant lie until he saw Margaret looking at him, incredulous. “Okay, I just wanted a reason to talk to you again. There, I said it.”

Margaret chuckled, “Was that so hard to say?” At that, Will visibly drooped. She tried to change the subject. “Do you like cookies? I was going to try a new recipe for snickerdoodles.”

Will straightened up and grinned at her. “My dad always loved snickerdoodles. I’d love to join you.”

\---

They continued this sort of routine for months, where he would buy some sort of flowers for her before he planned to visit and give them to her that night. He’d always find a different way to present them: with the flower in his mouth; him on one knee and pulling the bouquet from behind him in a flourish; and daintily placing a flower crown on her head while she wasn’t paying attention, to name a couple of her favorites. They’d end up chatting until the late hours of the night, baking cookies, or tending to her gradually growing garden.

He knew where she got the new species from, of course. He never brought it up after the first time. She was thankful.

One morning, Will caught her locking up. “Whatcha doin’?” he asked as he jogged up to her.

Margaret turned around to face him, holding a large bouquet of lilies. “I’m visiting a grave today.”

“Can I come along?”

She shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”

Will nodded gravely and took the bouquet from her arms to let her handle a small picnic basket. Odd, he thought, but he left it at that.

After a while, Margaret broke the silence. “We’ll need to take the train to go from downtown to the city that my mother is buried. I hope you don’t mind this kind of sudden day trip.”

Will smiled endearingly. “I don’t mind, I work at night anyways.” He watched her face contort from vague mourning to obvious curiosity. “I’m an exotic dancer. It’s easy money and tips are always plentiful.”

Margaret looked awed. “Strippers are super athletic, huh? No wonder you’re able to do parkour.” She paused. “Wait, then how can you come over to my place as often as you do?”

“I also run the tattoo parlor down the street. Like, right there, see?” He pointed to a storefront across the street. “I have tons of people that work for me though so I don’t have to worry too much about staying there.”

She nodded her head to what he was saying, but she didn’t turn her head. “No, I don’t sexually harass my employees nor my customers,” he tried.

“Huh?”

“You started getting a faraway look in your eyes. Are you alright?”

“Just… thinking, I guess,” she sighed.

“You sure do sigh a lot. It’s like you’re carrying the heaviest stuff for such a little woman.”

“Maybe.”

They sat in silence for the entirety of the train ride. When they arrived at Margaret’s mother’s grave, Margaret took out a water bottle and a small sponge to lightly wipe down the cold granite headstone, and placed it back into her basket. She carefully took the bouquet from Will and set it down in front of the headstone. Staying quiet all the while, she set out a small blanket she had packed, and patted the spot next to her for Will to sit as well.

“This,” she gestured at the headstone, “is my mother. I hope this isn’t too disturbing for you.”

“Don’t be crazy,” Will scoffed. “I’m sure your mother would enjoy seeing a handsome young man for once.” He finished off his comment with a wink.

She rolled her eyes, but then pulled out a bottle of red wine and two glasses. “Normally I’d have a glass for my mother, but you could use a drink too,” she explained.

“Are you sure you weren’t expecting me to come and join you anyway?” he teased as he waggled his eyebrows at her.

“Don’t be silly, I just thought… Oh never mind,” Margaret finished with a popping the cork off the bottle of wine. “Mother always loved red wine from Bordeaux, I just thought she’d be able to travel with me when I was old enough and we could have a drinking p-party,” she hiccuped through her sobs as she set down the bottle of wine. “I really miss her, is all.”

Will pulled her close, but trying to comfort her had the opposite effect, as she pushed him away. She sobbed more openly into her hands as she curled up into a ball and resolved to keep some semblance of distance from him. Margaret had never felt so vulnerable.

They didn’t find anything to talk about afterward, and he didn’t visit for a while.

And then she realized, she missed him.

\---

Shelly sometimes popped in to say hi and buy some flowers for herself. The young boys grew into more lethargic teenagers. Middle-aged men continued to fight with their wives until they stopped being together altogether.

Margaret simply watched. She didn’t feel satisfied with less activity in her shop, especially since Will rarely ever came by anymore. She couldn’t catch him running across rooftops in that ridiculous way with his arms behind him, but then again, she had stopped trying.

It’s not that she gave up, though. She was vaguely listening to him when he mentioned a tattoo parlor, so of course Margaret tried stopping by to check it out. She found a storefront boarded up where Will had pointed at so long ago.

Her mistake ended up being taking too much time.

She stopped caring, or so she thought. She had more coughing fits. Dry, hacking coughs soon turned up blood and phlegm. Margaret feared the worst. Her worries were unfortunately too true, as she noticed the petals of a white orchid float toward the floor.

To distract herself, she bought more wine. White wine, red wine, rose, the works. Margaret went out with her coworkers more often as well, drinking herself into oblivion and ended every crazy night with heaving into a toilet at home. She noticed more than the orchids now, noting the camellias, arbutus, and stray tulips that all came up whole. Every blossom came up with pain, but she couldn’t bear to operate on herself. Not yet. There’s still a chance he could come back. If only she didn’t push him away in the first place.

\---

Wilson did indeed show up. “This is my favorite flower shop, the owner here is really nice and always helpful,” he said. 

Margaret perked up from behind the counter to greet Will, until she realized he was holding hands with someone else, and giving him the look Margaret had so wanted to receive from Will. Now, she realized, she would never be able to.

She greeted Will by name. She smiled at the other guy as well. Of course he would have found someone else, what did you expect?, her thoughts came crashing down on her. “What do you have in mind this time around, Will?”

“Some gardenias for my man here,” Will kissed his forehead sweetly.

Oh, how she wished that was her. “Alright, nice choice,” she replied tartly. Margaret gathered a large bundle of gardenias for him, and rang him up. “Would you like to attach a card?”

“No, thank you, I tell him everything I need to already.” His voice held no bitterness, but a slight hint of nostalgia, as if it was a pain for him to move on the way he did.

She watched him leave, with an expression that was better described as a grimace than a smile, as Margaret found herself behind the counter once again in a coughing fit.

Maybe she should go through with the operation. She didn’t have anything to lose, after all. That scene was enough for her to know that a loved lost sometimes is no better than never having loved at all.

\---

The following night, she stepped out onto her balcony, to relish one last time in the fresh floral scent of her garden. She breathed in deep, but her exhale was staggered from another bud threatening to come up.

She sat in front of a mirror with some white wine. “To the end of love,” she whispered, and polished off her drink. Margaret drew her shears, starting unnecessarily high between her collarbones, and sliced down to just above where her diaphragm started. Blood poured out over her carpet, but she couldn’t care less. The emotional pain far exceeded the physical.

Margaret reached inside the fresh cut, feeling around for the bump where a bulb should reside, but found nothing. She checked in the mirror, frantic, and found no more with her eyes than her hands could. Just blood, which continued to gush out over her body.

Different types of flowers for different types of love, was it?

The weight at the bottom of her heart disappeared before she knew it, but what did that mean? Was she no longer in love with Will? Had she already moved on? Impossible, she still felt the ache when she was reminded of that scene. But lovesickness taking the form of flowers was no less rare than dying of heartbreak, why should she be any different?

Margaret cried, soaking her carpet with blood, sweat, and tears. Her sobs were choked with blood and flower petals. She should’ve gotten more wine, but now… now she was in hysteria. She kept reaching in, to grasp the bottom of her heart, along the drying bones, and poking directly at her lungs. Maybe her love was too hidden, even from herself to realize. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe her love was too spontaneous for a bulb to appear, but then that means the flowers sprouted spontaneously as well. She didn’t know enough about Death’s Bouquet.

Well, such a shame indeed.

Her last exhale came out pained, whistling through the final petals.


End file.
